


私を見られなかった色

by aprito



Category: Naruto
Genre: Arranged Marriage AU, F/M, Modern AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-05
Updated: 2016-11-05
Packaged: 2018-08-29 04:59:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8476294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aprito/pseuds/aprito
Summary: A lot has happened within this year. She’s made new friends, she’s learned to adjust to a new environment, adapted to her parents not being around when she needed them. She met Sasori.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The color I could not see.

The sun hasn't set yet, but the air feels much milder as the two walk through the automatic sliding doors of one of Suna's few supermarkets. Sakura steals a glance at her partner, grabbing a basket on the way in. She ignores the open stares of many of the town's citizens; most people are still unaware of _what the hell_ she’s doing here in Suna, probably.

“So,” she scratches the arm that holds the basket - the basket that Sasori should be holding, given that he took the first escape route out of the house. “What's for dinner?”

He doesn't reply, which means he must be too absorbed in – picking out sauces? He eyes the labels carefully, before dumping two of the same kind into the basket.

As it stands, he's either too absorbed in fulfilling his tasks to the fullest – or he's ignoring her – both of which are fine by her.

 

…

 

Or maybe not.

“Strawberry milk?” She eyes the pink bottles placed into her basket, weighing it down significantly. “I thought you hated milk.” Or maybe not, but she likes to assume by the tragically low supply in the fridge.

“I do hate milk, Haruno,” he turns to her with his body, but his head is still scanning the shelves. “But I have my exceptions.”

_Excuse me staff? We have a crying child in aisle 9._

It's not the first time she's been out with him in public, she realizes, but she hadn't noticed then how distant the other usually chatty citizens seem to be when it comes to Sasori, barely sparing him a greeting.

Which isn’t inexplicable, given his extensive history of being a grump, if you believe what Kankuro and Temari have told her.

The basket's getting heavy, so she switches it to her other arm.

Sasori deposits a package of pork into the basket with collected aplomb and disappears around the corner, leaving her to find him among the crowded aisles.

It’s not that big of a deal, really. Except that Sakura hasn't been in anything but convenience stores (yet?), so she hopes Sasori will find her first while she takes the opportunity to...buy some snacks...well, if she can find them.

Yeah.

Avoiding the incoming glare of a women whose kid she nearly trips over, she makes a beeline straight for the back of the supermarket, where, luckily, her favorite brand of yakisoba lays tucked away behind packages of instant ramen. Her mind wanders towards Naruto, and she realises she hasn't had the sodium filled snack in a while, either.

Unfortunately, before she even makes a move to place it in her basket, another hand unceremoniously appears in her view to snatch it away right before her very eyes.

Sakura hadn't even registered the presence beside her-, she's always considered herself a common target for potential mugging, anyway.

“Hey I had my eyes on that first, assho-!”

“You're too loud,” the person, who reveals themselves to be none other than Sasori – much to her dismay – replies, putting her beloved snack back.

Sakura huffs, disgruntled. “I can pay for that myself.”

“That is not the point.” Sasori says. “These aren't even close to nutritious. You should make that yourself.”

Oh yeah, Sasori must have ignored all the take-out she's been living off to assume that she can cook. Right.

“Besides,” he continues, holding up a glass vial of chili paste. “I nearly dropped this because I assumed you were behind me; Not sneaking away.”

The basket is seriously straining on her shoulder joint now. She’s glad at least they’re making their way to the register.

“Well, I've never been in this particular supermarket before, and you speed off like a mouse,” she replies, having a really hard time trying not to sound snappy. _Remember Sakura, he's a snarky little sad man and you're the better person here. “_ You could have called me.”

Sasori eyes her for a moment, while she attempts to ease the ache of her arm by taking one of the milk bottles. “Just try to find me first next time, _Sakura_.”

Sasori turns around to enter the queue almost within the next second of finishing that response, so he does not see how her eyes comically widen, or how she nearly drops the milk right then and there. He pays for the groceries and swiftly leaves the store, coolly ignoring the cashier's “Have a nice evening, Akasuna-san”; Upholding Suna's tradition of _literally_ everyone here knowing each other like they're in a Stepford town.

Sakura’s not _that_ rude. She bids goodbye and picks up the other bag that Sasori left there for her, though not without missing how the girl does not give her the same polite treatment.

_Oh well, I'm an outsider and this is a horror movie, after all._

Sasori's impatient stare gives her no reason to doubt her statement.

She glances at him as they walk home, the sun having begun to disappear behind Suna's shores.

The buzz of his tone as he used her name for the first time today was definitely… unexpected.

 

* * *

 

…

 

…

 

…

 

“Ew, If I have to see any more of this heterosexual bullshit, I'm leaving.”

“Itachi is gay, Temari.”

“Didn't you see how disgustingly sweet that women over there acted towards him?”

“She's old enough to be his grandmother, sis'.”

“Would you two be quiet?” Sakura hushes, making sure Itachi doesn’t hear any of them from the building they've been hiding behind.

For some reason, Temari and her two brothers had agreed to come with her to tag along to _follow_ (stalk) Itachi around town. After Deidara got released from his overnight stay in a cell, he – as expected – went right back to the Akasuna-Haruno household. With Ino's continuous nagging, it didn't take long for him to approach and task her to spy on the older Uchiha brother, reason being that Deidara still didn't know if Itachi was actually, well-

Taken.

Truth to be told, she hadn't seen any Uchihas for a while, not since Sasuke was forcefully dragged back to Konoha by Naruto (and tormented by Sai); while she didn't mind Deidara hogging the couch in the front room, she'd also appreciate it if he didn't feel the need to break into her house at random intervals while she was catching up on the latest episodes of another sappy drama, crying her eyes out.

So here she is, following Itachi Uchiha around in the role of a sly detective. She’s glad for the company, as the job feels as nerve-wracking as if it were real. There’s no doubt that her companions are no stranger to the thirst for drama, and that is why they agreed to tag along; but she still hasn't quite figured out what Gaara was doing here. The youngest Sabaku child isn't saying a lot, occasionally raising and then lowering his hand as if he wants to ask something, and staring at her-- _which she’s already used to from another_ creepy judgmental redhead _,_ _thank you_.

“I should have stayed back with my girlfriend. This seems like the most boring job in the world.”

Kankuro scoffs. “Aren't you the one running for mayor, sis'?”

“You don't understand, Kankuro. Being mayor would mean I actually get to change something around this town. Suna's been boring even before we were born.”

Sakura hopes this won’t involve more frequent visits to her house dragging Deidara along as if he was their responsibility.

In the course of the day, they haven’t really discovered anything worthy of a scandal. Itachi doesn’t seem to be getting any lustful calls from his secret lover (much to Sakura’s disappointment). In fact, Itachi hasn’t done much today, except for guiding a few elderly across the street, taking care of a young man whose cat had gone missing, and helping fix some kid's bike. For lunch he didn't meet up with anyone in particular, and ate bento in his small bike-car hybrid. If you didn't count Deidara, Suna's crime rate was shockingly low.

Gaara cocked his head to get a better view with his fancy binoculars. “The subject just ended the conversation with the elderly woman and appears to be leaving the area. It's exactly 17 minutes since his shift ended,” he finishes, picking up his cactus. “It is getting late, and I still haven't watered the plants today.”

“Oh yeah” Sakura remembers. “Botanist.”

“You can go, little bro.” The eldest Sabaku child waves in his direction. “Tell Baki we’ll drop by later. I’ve got the earplugs he wanted.” She pointedly ignores Kankuro’s distant prayer of ‘I’d like to thank God’ and checks her phone.  

“Let's stop over at Haruno's house first,” Temari declares as soon as Itachi is out of sight. “Ino's waiting there for you.”

 

...

 

“Well,” Ino starts, flipping through a magazine. “Does he have a lover or not?”

“Just a bunch of old bats, really,” Temari replies. Deidara groans.

“This isn't gonna work out,” Kankuro says, loudly munching on an apple and taking up two dining chairs at the table. “He's too damn nice for you.”

“Fuck you too, asshole, yeah.” Deidara buries his head in the crook of his arm, still trying to reduce the pain of Sasori throwing a bunch keys like a projectile missile at his head. (To Deidara’s disappointment, that was not Sasori’s way of saying he’s allowed to come by more often.) When they arrived, Ino was already putting an ice pack on him.

“Don't listen to him, Deidara.” In the meantime, Sakura is trying, - _trying_ -, to get the rice cooker to work. So far, nothing has been forthcoming. “He seems really nice.”

She still doesn’t really know the older Uchiha enough to make safe judgements, but she also isn’t going to gang up on the pyromaniac.

“ _You_ ,” Kankuro interjects, accidentally spitting a piece of chewed apple on the table. _Gross._ “Someone living in a failed marriage shouldn't be commenting at all.”

“My marriage is not fail-” Sakura sighs, giving up on the rice cooker entirely and resigning herself to enjoying a piece of bread for dinner instead. “Okay, you're not wrong.”

“Her marriage technically isn't failing, Kankuro.” Ino, Sakura notices, has made a point to sit at the opposite end of the table. “For something to fail it has to exist first.”

“Gee, thanks.” the med student huffs. She's been doing that a lot lately. 

Ino looks up from the magazine to smile at her. “You're welcome, forehead.”

“When did this topic turn away from me again, yeah?” Deidara intervenes curtly, obviously fed up with the derailing banter. “So, what should I do?”

Sakura swiftly pilfers another piece of candy from Sasori’s treasure chest while nobody is paying attention to her. From her point of view, she can only see Deidara’s tragic figure from the back, watching as he slouches despondently in his seat. She unwraps the foil of the chocolate coin. “What have you tried before?” _Besides getting yourself arrested._

Deidara cranes his neck to look at her, a pondering expression on his face. “Not much, yeah.”

_Well._

Temari slams her hands on the table, effectively jump-scaring everyone in the room. “Hook up.”

“Temari, no.”

“Not my fault he's into someone so boring that watching grass grow is more interesting.”

“Hey, at least he's not a piece of cardboard.”

“Isn't that reserved for Sasori?”

“Shut up, bimbo.”

On the other side of the house, Sasori sneezes.

 

* * *

 

 

…

 

…

 

…

 

 

 

In hindsight, spending the night in his workshop was probably a imbecilic idea after all, he thinks, swathed beneath three layers of blankets in the upper stairs guestroom.

Getting sick was never something he looked forward to as a child, his methods of occupying himself being what they are. Horribly limited, that is.

His current predicament isn't much different, except that this time his _wife_ sits on a stool at the end of the bed, pouring what seems to be honey into a cup of tea, much to his dismay.

“That is repulsive.” His voice sounds nasal and his throat is horribly strained, but his tone of disgust remains distinct.

Not that his objection fazes the girl, since Sakura doesn't look up from what she’s doing. “It's good for you. Honey is a natural sweetener and raw sugar is the last thing you need right now.” She moves the tray away, a cup in one hand and liquefied medicine in the other, and leans over the nightstand. “Take the medicine first. That should stop the headaches.”

Sasori sniffles and scowls. This is precisely the reason why he's always kept away from doctors. “Over my dead body.”

Too bad he’s gotten married to one.

Unfortunate as the situation is, Sasori quickly learned in the three days he's been confined to this bed, that the girl is – just as, if not more–  impatient as him, sometimes. Especially if he puts up a _fuss_ like she said; so he only registers Sakura smiling for a split second before she's at his side – _too close_ – grabbing his head and forcing the liquefied source of _fucking_ _hell_ down his throat. She's gotten a lot more bold, the brat.

“Now that wasn't so hard, was it? I took vacation time just for you, too.” Sasori wouldn't be surprised if she’s  developed a knack for sadism over the course of their co-habitation. He’s not able to reply because she's shoving the cup against his already burning cheek. “Drink up. I'll be back in a second.”

Sasori is beyond miffed. Right now he is pacing inwardly, constantly going back and forth between attempting to calm himself down and developing a plan to get back at her in a fit of rage.

By the fifth day, his fever has subsided and his throat aches less, but his headaches and stuffy nose remain. His grandmother occasionally comes by, most of the time to cackle at his suffering, other times to bring him food, as he’s learned that Sakura can barely manage cooking chicken breast, much less make soup that doesn’t taste like sewer waste.

He wondered how Sakura’s made it without basic survival skills for so long.

Right now, she is sitting on the same stool again, this time right next to him, armed with a newfound interest in the arts and attempting to draw whatever he tells her to draw. It’s already too late to scold her for using a permanent black marker on his oh-so-precious sketchbook paper, ever the spontaneous person (read: the brat does what she wants).

She’s drawn a tree, cups of tea and flowers to show him, and if he’s learned one thing at all, it’s that drawing is something else Sakura is _horrible_ at. It’s almost comical.

“I, uhm, finished my drawing.” she says, peeling her eyes from the sketchbook she’s balancing on her lap with one hand and holding the marker in another. From his angle it’s hard to take a peak, so he waits for his self-proclaimed student to show him her latest ultimum opus artis. She sighs, and turns the canvas around to give him a better view.

The room is silent. One could almost assume that he’s taken aback by her latest work, and really he is, though not in the way that artists before his time might have been at the proteges taken under their mantles.  
In fact, it’s for the best that he hasn’t given any thought to that prior, because what she’s presenting him now….

“Is --”

He can’t speak.

Or rather, he doesn’t know what to make of it. It looks like a misshapen lump, with tufts of _something_ coming out of it, connected to lines that she’s pressed deep into the paper as though to convey the apparently sincere effort she’s into this -- abomination.  
This abomination that might just be his portrait. His uncanny eye for detail will not spare him from this information, and he is forced to conclude that she can only draw his hair like it’s shrubbery. In the corner, his name is scrawled out in katakana.

It’s obscene.

Sasori is very glad for this cold he’s developed, because it successfully manages to turn his incoming laughing fit into a coughing one.

“Hey, you’re going to croak on me before your grandmother if you keep that up.” Sakura sucks in air through her nose, but the grin on her face remains, as he isn’t fast enough to conceal his own with the back of his hand.

After taking a full minute to calm his throat with another dose of that nasty tea, he straightens up to speak.

“I’ve never been more offended.” he declares, taking the drawing from Sakura to inspect it closely. Sakura might as well have been a merchant with two broken thumbs in another life.

“You laugh like an old man.” Sakura says, still grinning. “Old man. Anyways,” she begins, taking the drawing back. “You remember Kankuro, right?”

Now it’s Sasori’s turn to scoff. “That buffoon? He’s an annoyance.”

She raises her eyebrows quizzically. “Have you ever spoken to him before?”

The redhead briefly raises his eyes to the ceiling, as if thinking, but regrets the upward motion as soon as he realises it’s flaring up his headaches again. After all the time taken to quell them...

“He used to come by a lot when I was still a student. Bothering me about giving him ‘tips’. I didn’t even make dolls that often.”

“So you hate him?” Sakura cuts in, her eyes widening in the same fashion she uses when she watches TV, so he’s observed.

“Hm. I wasn’t fond of his attitude.”

Truth to be told, Sasori didn't hate the middle Sabaku child, but he prefered to interact with as little people as possible on a daily basis.

Sakura closes the sketchbook and scoots closer with her stool, interest piqued.

“Well, he’s blackmailed me into convincing Chiyo to teach him. Any tips?”

“Keep him off our property.” Our, huh. Sasori’s too late to catch himself, but a sidelong glance reveals that she’s failed to pick up the slip in his hasty answer, (hopefully).

The girl shifts in her seat, painfully reminding Sasori that she’s wearing shorts today. “I’ll ask her anyways, thanks.”

_The brat does whatever she wants, truly._

He sends her a sharp glare. “You shouldn’t have asked me then.”

“I was only trying to be nice.” She mirrors his expression, her eyes scrunching up into thin crescents. He's suddenly reminded of their little fight at the restaurant, and surprising himself, he has the sudden urge to paint her, again.

“Besides, I wouldn’t have to tutor him in the first place if I wasn’t broke from all the money I spend on food.” He can sense that she’s being passive aggressive, an  attempt to provoke him into a certain direction. Is she trying to ruin his mood today? Mere seconds after he’s had a little boost of inspiration, too.

“You’re such a child, Sakura.” He frowns, bringing the cup to his dry lips and taking another tentative sip. “You assume we would have physically removed you from the table.”

“No, but I-”

Sasori looks at her again. “You can do whatever you want in this house.”

Sakura goes quiet for a moment, avoiding his piercing stare, and he continues to watch as she raises her hand to scratch at her ear after this pause.

“I guess you’re-” She concedes, sighing. “I guess you’re right on that one. Sorry.”  

He’s surprised at her apology, even if he’s heard the words before from her. _Huh._

Sasori returns his gaze to the cup, now feeling the heavy tension of the room weighing down on him. “If you want, I can teach you.”

She looks up in surprise. “Teach me what?”

“Meals,” he answers in his usual monosyllabic tone. “I can teach you.”

“That’d-” Sakura pauses for a moment. “That’d be helpful, thank you Sasori.”

“You’re... welcome.”

 

* * *

 

 

…

 

…

 

…

 

“I can’t do this!” Sakura groans and scrunches the dumpling up in her hand, filling and dough pushing between her clenching fingers.

Beside her, Sasori finishes making the tenth one with characteristic finesse. “You just need practice.”

“No, I’m just bad.”

“You’re lazy.”

  
“That too.”

It didn’t take much for Sasori to assume that she’d be a hard case, after witnessing her floundering hopelessly from the get go. (She’d even failed in the simple step of putting on the apron.) He wasn’t very good at hiding his lack of trust in her abilities either, so Sakura didn’t start out with the highest of confidence, exactly.

“Here, watch this.” Sasori says, masterfully sealing his eleventh dumpling by carefully pressing his thumb into the dough, making sure the contents won’t spill.

“This is too hard.” By this time Sakura is long past caring that flour’s streaked over her face and hair in dastardly highlights. “Can’t we do something simple, like soup?”

Sasori grits his teeth in answer, and she’s sure he’s close to throwing the kitchen knife at her any moment now. Best to leave it at that.  

Honestly, though. As sweet as his offer was to teach her, he’s made the mistake of greatly underestimating her capability of performing basic household skills.

Dejectedly, Sakura returns her attention back to what amounts to her third mutated dumpling.

They’ve both put their rings on the window counter (one of the only places free of flour and mince), Sasori finding that it was annoying working with them. Just a few days ago, Sakura had graciously humored him by starting to wear hers again. So there they both are, still charmingly unmatched and placed side by side, catching the light of the late afternoon sun.

It’s almost like they’re a real life married couple. Very surreal.

She’s jolted back to the present when she hears a distant pop that can only mean that her dumpling has burst. She doesn’t look in Sasori’s direction, but she hears him loudly exhale, indicating that she’s really _really_ trying his patience today.

“Uh, sorry?”

He doesn’t reply. Instead, he takes the sad mangled lump away from her and replaces it in her hands with a fresh piece of dough, layering the top with another spoonful of filling. He’s angled himself now closer to her so he can direct her, and Sakura feels only slightly embarrassed. _Sakura, you’re making this more awkward than it is._

“Here.” In what Sakura notes is a reluctant motion, he drapes his ( _nicely formed, very nicely formed, what the fuck_ ) tan hands over her broad ones, and presently magic happens.

He’s probably realized at this point that instruction by way of talking won’t get them anywhere, so this facilitates the process better: the dumpling is neatly folded and sealed in almost no time at all, complete with pleats that he deftly imprints her thumbs against. She feels heat radiating from her left from what could only be his face - _oh my god_ \- probably unaware of how close he’s gotten.

She doesn’t dare confirm this. If she so much as turns her head she’s going to have this go south really fast. So she just stands still, letting him use her limp hands as if he was forming them from clay _._ What feels like time just froze for them really only lasts a few seconds, as he quickly steps away to make the rice without so much as a parting remark, leaving her to hold the perfected dumpling in her hands.

“You’re hopeless with cooking.” Sasori comments, working on heating up the pan for the meat she brought home from her short trip to the supermarket earlier. “Take out the dishes instead instead of getting in my way.”

“Hey.” She pouts, but is quick to wash her hands and remove herself from the kitchen entirely, to save both of them the embarrassment of addressing Sasori’s reddening ears.

She’s really bad at other things, too, it seems.  

 

* * *

 

…

 

…

 

…

 

As Sakura finds out, Sasori is a bit of a legend around her campus.

It wasn’t her choice to take up art history as an extra subject to fill the space for a third language. She just really, really wasn’t good at languages (her daily struggle with English and Latin, mandatory lingua for the medical field, was proof of that), and thus she’d ended up here, listening to Baki, the Sabaku siblings’ adoptive father, going on about famous artists within Japan and outside of the country.

Besides, a little knowledge could help conversing with Sasori more-

Sakura rolls her eyes at her textbook. _Alarming thoughts you got there, Sakura._

“So, does anyone know when Japonism started spreading in Europe?” Baki’s eyes ( _eye_ ) wanders around the room, boring holes into the faces of the anxious art students looking to survive his classes. “Anyone?”

Baki, Sakura has to admit, is an intimidating individual. She half raises her hand. The man sighs. “Sakura.”

“Around the 1860s, sir." 

He straightens his posture before walking back to the front, selecting the next slide of his powerpoint presentation. “That is correct.”

So it goes on as usual, poor Baki entirely depending on the motivations of two to three students at most. The rest of them wear expressions that indicate their level of interest - which is low at best. They’d all rather be working in the art studios. It would be enough to drive any lesser instructor to their knees. Baki however, has held out longer than average.

“The gold star student of this university was not only a master of his craft, but had an excellent memory as part of his skills. He would scoff at all of you being so blatantly disinterested in what is _just_ as important as knowing how to wield a brush.”

Sakura buries her face deeper into the textbook in hopes he won’t stare at her directly while waxing lyrical about the mostly impassive man basically living in his workshop. She isn’t sure whether he’s telling half-truths or not.

Sasori is not only a bit of a legend around campus; he’s also frequently - as Kankuro told her once, to distract her from forcing more calculus test sheets on him -  used as a source of motivation for the vast majority of art students hoping to make it in the harsh world of people that undervalue their worth.

Until she joined this class, Sakura used to gasp in wonder at anyone who could draw more than simple stick figures, so when Baki used this tactic the first time, she didn’t even realise whom he was referencing.

The reference always works wonders; the rustling of papers and heads raising indicates as such. _If they only knew how nastily Sasori can behave in person._ If she ever brought it up, cynical tongues would readily assume she was envious of the attention bestowed upon him, or that she didn’t like that so many people that weren’t _her_ were keeping him in their thoughts.

_Old habits die hard, I guess._

Ugh. Her pencil presses into her cheek a little harder, as though to firmly remind herself that the surprisingly awkward self-reflection must be curbed immediately.

At least time is on her side in this rare moment, the bell signalling the end of lesson time pealing as the entire class bursts once more into activity and the room empties rapidly. Sakura, however, takes her sweet time packing her belongings when they’re dismissed, this being her last class of the day after all.  
Maybe Temari and Ino wouldn’t mind her dropping by for a chat before going home?

Baki moves past her when she stands up, and they nod at each other, him being used to her from her presence at the Sabaku house outside of university. She sees shadows under his eyes and hopes it isn’t because of Temari’s and Ino’s nefarious nightly schemes _._

The large crowd gathered outside of the room manages to draw not Baki’s interest but hers, immediately.

Sadly, she can’t even see what’s going on, much less identify the centre of all this chaos.

Oh well.

She’s barely around the corner when someone - or something - pushes her into an empty lecture hall and closes the door behind them. She doesn’t even have time to speak before a hand is pressed against her mouth.

The identity of the attacker, who she assumed was going to end her life for stealing notes, turns out to be none other than a frantic-looking Sasori.

She removes his hand when the noises outside scatter and fade.

“What’s wrong with you?”, she asks, her tone bewildered.

Sasori makes sure no one’s around before he replies. “I don’t like crowds.”

Wow, she couldn’t tell.

“The University has more students than Suna’s population.” It’s dark in here, but she doesn’t fail to see the blank look Sasori sends her way.

“You did not reply to my _eleventh_ call and thus I took it upon myself to pick you up.”

“You could have done it without taking approximately _eleven_ years off my lifespan, Sasori.”

She’s a student. Didn’t he learn from last time?

Besides, she’d rather not have more people assuming she was paying her way through bills with compensated dating.

“I wasn’t expecting an army of children swarming all over me.”

Is he being serious? With even _cashiers_ knowing who he is, how could he not? It could also be a deliberate miscalculation on his part, and he just wanted the students to bow before him and part like the sea before Moses.

Sakura snorts at that.

Minutes pass. Sakura doesn’t know how long they’ve been in this room, but the halls are now deadly quiet, and so she gives him the OK to leave together.

Sasori inspects her hand. “You’re still wearing the ring.”

“It’s safer on my hand than in my back pocket,” she quickly shoots back, hoping he hasn’t noticed that she’s wearing it pretty much all the time now.

She shouldn’t be so embarrassed. They are, after all, mar-

Sakura wishes she still had that pencil pressed into her cheek.

They exit the building through a back door she didn’t know existed (Sasori explains that it’s safer that way). Aiming to divert attention from the oddity of their situation, she changes the topic.

“Baki said you were really good in Art History.”

Sasori turns his head to look at her briefly. “I placed first on the exam.”

“Geez, you’re humble.”

“Doesn’t mean I ever actually spoke a word in that class.”

“Oh.”

She still isn’t very good with upholding a proper conversation outside of back-and-forth snark with him, so they leave it at that. Sakura finds that she was more comfortable that way, her constant ache to actually have a conversation notwithstanding.

She’s not hugely familiar with this environment, but eventually even she realises that Sasori isn’t actually guiding her home, but has taken a few extra turns to walk behind the hill the house stayed on.

Just as she’s about to raise a query about this it appears that there’s no need to after all. Presently they arrive at a patch of beach seemingly untouched - or unknown - by the rest of Suna; Ebizo is standing beside a bucket of fish while Chiyo is preparing to heat up what seemed to be a DIY grill. Both are out of their robes, quite the unusual sight.

“Sakura, dear, would you help me carry these? It seems that I caught too much.”

“Uh, sure.” She rushes over to bring the bucket to the open campfire. Fortunately, they don’t let her actually deal with the food.

And so twenty minutes later, they’re all sitting around the fire, eating grilled fish in late fall when it’s actually 29°C outside. She’s become very much fond of these spontaneous detours.

“So that’s why you called.” she says, in between thoughtful munches of rice.

“Someone needed to carry the fish.”   

Ebizo picks up another fish from the bucket and lays it on the grill. “This one is called the Mahi Mahi. It’s known for headbutting other fish. You can see it bleeding from the forehead right here.”

Sakura reflexively raises a free hand to rub at her hairline - she’s glad that Ino isn’t around right now to compare her to said fish.

“You should know, child.” Ebizo coughs, and her attention settles back on him. “Sasori knows how to catch fish.”

Chiyo is picking apart bones, not paying her young brother much attention. Ebizo gestures to Sakura to come over and so she does, bowl of rice in hand and all. He puts his hand on her shoulder, as if he is about to reveal a secret to her.

“My sister does not like to admit it, but she’s terribly unfortunate at this hobby of ours.

Chiyo looks up from where she was about to call Sakura over in the same fashion Ebizo just did, and Sakura works her bare feet through the sand, making sure not to step on any hot ashes.

“My little brother used to wet his bed until he was 10.”

Chiyo laughs loudly as Ebizo gives her a look (or what Sakura assumes was a look, the place where his eyes should be pitch black), and Sakura nearly falls over from the sudden reaction.

“Sis’.”

The older woman cackles as Sakura just stands there, feeling incredibly out of place. Chiyo senses her poor granddaughter-in-law’s predicament, to her relief.

Chiyo puts the meat into one bowl and the bones into another empty bucket before she speaks. “How are your folks doing, hm?”

“Oh!” Sakura perks up at the question, recalling that Chiyo hasn’t yet been able to see them again, as she wasn’t able to make it to Konoha last time.

“I called them just last week. My dad’s still weak on his leg from his injury, but mom says he should be better in a few weeks.”

“That is good to hear.” Ebizo chips in.

“She..” Sakura isn’t sure whether they would appreciate it right now, but decides to give a go, anyways. “She wanted me to send a picture.”

Sasori glances at her, but refrains from commenting, leaving the request be.

Chiyo, on the other hand, is ecstatic.

“My, we should get to that right away then- No, eat up, my lovely in-law. My cherubic grandson will fetch us the camera.”

Sakura nearly chokes on her rice.

Sasori mumbles ‘whatever’ to himself but stands up to return to the house.

It’s quiet out now, the crisp crackle of fire burning through wood and the sound of soft waves rushing to reach the shore being the only companions to her ears. Sakura realises how welcoming this change of envoirment was to her, thinking back to the bustling and busy streets of Konoha. 

For how boring many considered Suna, it was nonetheless calming. Warm.

Chiyo makes sure that Sasori has disappeared out of earshot and eyesight before she speaks again.

“I’m glad you’re around for him, Sakura.” Her voice is not as strong as it used to be, but it still has that certain edge to it. “It hasn’t been easy for us, my dear.”

Out of the corner of her eyes, she can sense Ebizo looking at her, his posture carrying a sense of melancholy.

Sakura remembers his words. That Chiyo bounced back, while Sasori never did.

But living in that house for nearly all her life, has she really?

Sakura opens her mouth to say something, but before she can formulate a vaguely tactful response Chiyo shoves a piece of Mahi Mahi right into her mouth, cutting her off at the pass.

It’s so hot that her eyes sting with tears.

“Ah, my lovely grandson!”

Sakura turns her head to the same direction Chiyo does, while trying not to spit out the fish from how it prematurely _burns_ her tongue.

There he is, tripod and camera obtained, his impassive expression locked in place.

“I brought the equipment.”

He holds one in each hand as if he doesn’t know where to place them. Chiyo stands up to set up both in a way that would have the sea serve as a background.

Chiyo instructs Sakura to pick the timer, before she positions the rest of the family accordingly, and Sakura notices that Sasori and Chiyo seem to share the same trait of artistic perfectionism.

The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, as they say.

“Sakura, dear, you shouldn’t stand so far off the center.” Chiyo fumbles with Sakura’s position, dragging her around as if she’s a doll, before finally placing her-

Awkwardly close to Sasori.

Ebizo doesn’t move from where he stands on the right, his sister left of the pair. (Chiyo considered laying on the sand before an ache in her back had her throw the idea out of the window).

Her arm is basically pressed against his, so she loosely intertwines them and holds up her other hand in a peace sign. Sasori reacts by mirroring her hand gesture.

She can’t see his face, but she feels him locking their intertwined arms together.

Before the timer goes off, a gust of wind surprises them all, and the tripod falls into the - luckily - soft sand.

She finds that she doesn’t mind, not at all.

 

* * *

 

 

...

 

...

 

…

 

Sakura tosses and turns in her futon. It’s way _way_ too cold tonight. Closing the sliding doors has revealed itself to be a futile plan, doing nothing to block out the frosty temperatures of the night. With a healthy portion of courage, she takes the blanket and quietly crawls to the other, bigger, occupied futon in the same room.

She hopes Sasori doesn’t mind sharing his body heat with her.

 

* * *

 

 

…

 

…

 

…

 

Someone is outside, knocking the door instead of using the doorbell. Sakura looks up from her quiz book.

Did Deidara finally learn common courtesy?

She unfolds her legs and opens the front door, coming face to face not with Deidara but with the youngest Sabaku, Gaara.

“Good day.”

“Good..day to you, too?” Sakura steps aside, opening the door wider in polite invitation. “Would you like to come in?”

“I have to go back soon, but thank you for the offer. I just wanted to confirm something.”

Gaara clutches his potted plant. Does he have one for every occasion?

“Is Naruto around?”

Now Sakura is openly confused. Did Naruto come by without another announcement?

“Well, I haven’t seen him in months, to be honest.”

“I know.”

So... that’s that.

  
Sakura figures she will get the answer to her unspoken inquiries if she waits patiently, but as the seconds tick by with Gaara simply standing at the door it seems that there is to be no further explanation for why he’s asking about Naruto. Any longer and this is going to get incredibly awkward for the both of them, so she decides to get straight to the point for his sake.

“Would...Would you like to talk to him?”

The corners of Gaara’s mouth twitch, and he nods- so _that’s_ what it’s about.

She successfully helps him save Naruto’s new number on his phone.

Sakura bids him goodbye and goes to close the door when _another_ voice resonates right behind, startling her.

 

…

 

Sasori wryly supposes she will never get used to his trap door appearances.

Sakura turns around, clutching her chest.

“Ugh, don’t scare me like that!”

Sasori shrugs. “I will try.”

Sakura exhales loudly and picks up her phone, fortunately for her still in one piece.

“Sorry, did you say something earlier?”

Sasori coughs into his hand. “I was asking why he needed the blonde haired brat’s number."

They move back into the front room so Sakura can sit down and resume her quiz book. He didn't bring anything to occupy himself with when he checked the source of the doorbell ringing, so he contents himself with watching her hands. “When I lived in Konoha, Naruto had a knack for destroying his phones every other week. I remember his mother was furious about it.” Sakura lets out a short laugh, fumbling with the pencil. He moves his gaze to her face. “I guess he changed his number without telling Gaara. They were pretty good friends before the siblings moved back to Suna to-”

Sakura’s face changes, and Sasori can suspect the reason.

“Their biological father died.”

“Yeah.

It’s fascinating, how easy she is to read, the emotions she expresses switching swiftly and minutely. The corners of her eyes are wet and she is quick to wipe the tears away before they fall.

“Sorry I-, I know they weren’t on good terms.”

Sasori was never that informed on the former mayor and his children (primarily because he didn’t care), but he was puzzled about how this girl - outsider to this town, its people - could feel this way. How strange.

“Why are you crying?”

  
She snaps her head in his direction. Her eyes were dull, not nearly as green as he's memorized them. Irking.  “Isn’t it sad?”

Sakura scratches her ear, again. A habit, so he’s observed. “I-, I mean I’m not very good at empathising with people, to be honest with you. It got me into a lot trouble with Sasuke, back in high school.” She doesn’t pointedly avoid his gaze.  “But I can imagine losing someone you knew is always- Or rather, I can’t really imagine because I haven’t experienced it but I think about my pa-”

Sasori doesn’t know how to feel, then, since he’s equipped with even less care for other people, even those close to him-

No, that isn’t right. Listening in, seeing her like this constricts something inside of him that he cannot name. 

His body is restless.

“Dammit.” Sakura turns her head away, so he cannot properly see her face. But he hears her choked sobs. Without looking at him, she holds out her hand.

“...Hold it, please.” She’s crying, and he simply cannot fathom why. “It helps.”

So he does, reluctantly taking the hand that laid limp at his side and folding it gently over hers.

“Sorry, I’m rambling.”

He is reluctant in his answer. “...It’s alright.”

But those are words that he doesn’t mean, not exactly. There’s no need to inform her, but that unnameable part within him bothers him for the rest of the afternoon, and will not leave him be long after the sun sets.

That night, he has trouble sleeping.

 

* * *

 

…

 

…

 

…

 

Sometimes, she thinks back to when everything hadn’t gone to shit. She thinks back to the stories her mother tells her about a little sweet-faced boy that spent all his saving money on buying her oversized princess costumes, who saved her from dragons and ghosts. The boy who fed her sweets when he thought her mother wasn’t watching, and who refused to let her go when it had been time to leave.

She thinks back to when she met him for the first time after graduation for their wedding arrangement. She hadn’t been thrilled, but he was even less so. He couldn’t stay in her home longer than it was necessary, spent his nights in Konoha sleeping in hotels, and he barely talked to her.

Sometimes, she wonders what prompted him to go through with it, still. His visits halted when she was just starting to form a coherent memory; he had been reduced to being a stranger within her life, and a fuzzy memory within her mind. When they finally met again, it was just like they’d never seen each other before.

Sometimes, she wonders, what it would have been like if his parents never passed away.

During the past few months they’ve been living together, something happened. From wishing this to halt this arrangement abruptly, they’ve worked through the various odds, both being the difficult people that they are.

She had been glad when he held her hand, even if he couldn’t understand her intentions. She had been too proud to look at him as she cried, ashamed that she let that thought of a mere scenario where _her_ parents died overwhelm her, when here was someone who had to deal with beloved kin ripped from him so cruelly as an inescapable reality, right beside her.

She had thought herself selfish, but he had let her be anyway. Hadn’t questioned her, hadn’t scoffed at her. She was not sure what he’d been thinking or feeling or intending, but it hadn’t been important in that moment.

She was a terrible friend back in her childhood, a terribly selfish person when it came to the people around but herself-, but she hoped she could do the same for him someday.

And to her amazement, that day came.

 

 

…

 

…

 

…

 

“Could you be still for more than five minutes? I can’t even lay a proper base down with you fidgeting every time.”

Sakura poked her tongue out in retaliation, not moving to return to her original pose.

“It’s tiring, and you chose something that makes it _very_ tiring _very_ fast.”

She can’t see his face from behind the canvas, but she can safely assume it must look displeased.

She tries to scratch the back of the knee as discreetly as possible, and falls over in the process.

...Make that _very_ displeased.

“You’re not someone who’s easy to work with.”

“You haven’t specified the time, either. I could go right now.”

“ _Sakura_ ” His tone holds the undercurrent of a threat, but she knows better at this point. Petty quarrel.

“I was just joking.” She holds her hands up from where she so graciously landed on the floor. “Just choose something easier. Haven’t you painted people before?”

Sasori appears behind the canvas to swirl the brushes in his mug labeled “Paint Water” and ponders for a moment.

“Not with their consent.”

“A-ha.”

The tatami isn’t exactly the softest ground to sit with your shorts on, so she grabs one of the sheets used to cover his paintings and sits on the bundle.

There, better.

Sasori seems to have given up on today’s lesson and sits across from her with his coffee mug, the sun outside setting and therefore presumably ruining the lighting for him.

He takes a sip. “How are your exams going?”

“Ugh, don’t remind me.” she replies, thinking of her only companions for these past weeks: Stacks upon stacks of books and notes. “I’ve still got one more ahead of me.”

“Ah. Would you be in need of any assistance?” he says, but his tone is about as emotionally flat as his default expression. Oh yes, he is extremely enthusiastic about this prospect; _really_ makes her feel grateful for his offering.

It’s not the first time he’s asked about her dealings in school. But she can basically count on one hand the number of times he’s said ‘you’ and ‘assistance’ within the same sentence.

Progress.

“How’s your commission been going on?” Sakura nods her head to the big painting of the beach that’s covered by a white sheet.

“Hm.” He glances at it. “I haven’t been in the mood to work on it, recently.”

Sakura scoots closer to take the mug from him, stealing a quick sip for herself whilst he’s distracted. “Why not?”

“I might just scrap it.”

“But _why_?”

“It...gives me unpleasant thoughts.”

That’s not at all the answer she’s expected at all. Sakura hums in response, uncertain.

“May I see it?”

She’s no artist in any way, but curiosity has spiked her thoughts.

He’s uncomfortable, she can tell. He gets up to fetch one of his older sketchbooks to flip through, so he doesn’t have to look her in the eye.

“Do what you want.”

So she does. Gingerly she lifts the shroud from the canvas so that she can look at the work he’s done so far.

It’s a landscape painting of one of Suna’s more popular beach spots, which she recognizes, from the times she’s been at the restaurant with Temari. Except that the spot is bare of anything in this painting, the coastline and the sparkling sea beautifully merged with the sun high above both. It’s breathtaking, as if she was there herself, right now.

But she can see that it’s not quite finished just yet. In the middle of the painting, and what she presumes must be the focus, is a family. She inspects the faces of the mother and father, noting a resemblance to a picture she’s seen before. He must’ve worked from a reference.

The space where the child’s face should be is, however...

It’s blank.

She turns around to see Sasori’s reaction, but he isn’t even looking in her direction, his body purposefully angled away from her while he is still flipping through his sketchbook.

“It’s really pretty. I love it.” She offers a smile, hoping that it’s sufficient as encouragement. “You should finish it.”

“No.”

“You really should.”

“I can’t.” His tone drops to the core of the earth. “It’s unpleasant.”

For the life of her she doesn’t understand what he’s getting at, even counting the fact that she’s got not much in the way of an artistic sense - there’s absolutely nothing that suggests that this painting is ‘unpleasant’, as he so harshly puts.  
She frowns, perplexed, and runs her eyes over it once again to arrive at the same conclusion.

She moves to sit again, in a position where she can see his face. “We can talk about it if you want to…?” she says, moving a strand of choppy pink hair behind her ear. “It helps.”

“I’m not very good at this.” She gestures between them. “But we’re friends and I-”

She hesitates for a long moment. At least until Sasori chooses to raise his head, but even then he still says nothing, which prompts her to keep going.

“I trust you. You’ve helped me out a lot and you’re-” she exhales, hoping she doesn’t sound too cheesy “You’re important to me. I want to help you, too.”

The image of her conversation with Ebizo flashes before her mind, again. _Chiyo bounced back, eventually. Sasori never did._

His sketchbook is still balanced in his lap, but his fingers are grasping it tightly, as if he’s unsure on what to say.

Just now she sees what he’s looking at.

It’s a very old drawing, the sketch book basically falling apart at its seams. Yet the quality of the paper does nothing to fade the lines.

It’s her, when she was no less than three years old.

But the drawing looks too rendered, too detailed, too composed for it be drawn by a child as young as he was back then, so that leaves-

“My mother drew this.”

“It’s-” she’s careful with her words. “It’s me, isn’t it?”

“It’s the last thing she did before she-” he pauses, clutching the sketchbook tighter, and she’s afraid he’ll rip the paper. Or snap the worn binding, whichever comes first. “Before they-”

He doesn’t dare say it and she doesn’t dare finish it for him. But she knows he’s never talked about this, so she stays quiet.

“It’s my first sketchbook. I wanted the first page to be you, so she drew this. It’s-"

His head is still turned downwards, so she cannot properly see his expression, but she doesn’t miss how he’s shaking.

“It’s ridiculous, isn’t it.”

She inches closer, not liking the distance between them. “I’m not judging you, Sasori.”

Sasori turns his head, but refrains from looking at her still. “Hold my hand.” He holds it out for her. “It’ll help.”

So she _does_. She comes even closer, gently enveloping his hand with both of hers in her lap, and she notices how warm her palms feel in comparison to his cold one.

And so he pours his heart out to her. It’s stilted, him trying to find the right words, calming himself with shaking breaths. He tells her how he remembers his parents would focus all of their available time on him, how they explored the sea and let him pick his favourite candy. He tells her how he saw them in their caskets, saw how peaceful they looked as though they were merely sleeping. Saw the look on his grandmother’s face as she was led away to cremate them.

He tells her how he lived with his grandmother after that, each sequestered in their own world; Chiyo preferring isolation and refusing to leave the house; whereas he tried to distract himself from the crushing sorrow with his art.

And Sakura listens, her body growing heavier with the familiar sense of melancholy. Her voice is small when his own goes still, subdued.

“You stopped visiting because I reminded you of them. When they were alive.”

The grip on her hand strengthens, and she gives it a squeeze in return.

His body is stiff now, but his voice trembles nonetheless. “I miss them so much.”  

Vulnerable. Like a child.

She doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to react, so she-

“Let me hold you, Sasori,” she says, her own voice shaking. “It’ll help.”

And so they lay there for god-knows how many hours, her reciting the stories her own parents have told her to him, him stitching whatever she’s left out with pieces of his own fuzzy memory.

She leaves the tear stains on her shoulder uncommented.

 

* * *

 

 

…

 

…

 

…

 

...

 

...

 

...

 

Despite the sun slowly setting, enveloping the room is soft colors, the breeze stubbornly remains non-existent today, Sakura realises, it being as hot as it can possibly get in summer.

One year. One year since she first set foot into this house, this town.

She’s managed to pass through her first year in university with flying colors, her goals focusing on a future working in the hospital of Suna with how severely understaffed it is.

But that is not the only thing that’s different about her.

She gently touches her up-do, making sure her short hair is still styled in place.

Or rather, it’s not the only thing that’s different about _them_.

A lot has happened within this year. She’s made new friends, she’s learned to adjust to a new environment, adapted to her parents not being around when she needs them.

She met Sasori.

It wasn’t easy of course, them being practically strangers to each other, each abhorring the other’s attitude, having to contend with each other’s jarring personalities. They had thought themselves to be complete opposites, destined to be associated by formalities and not much more.

But that’s not the case, not exactly.

She smiles.

Within this year, they’ve learned to tolerate each other, get along, to become friends and now - they have become inseparable, two people balancing each other’s faults out, supporting each other with their strengths, discovering more common ground than they could have imagined was even there.

It’s a friendship of mutuality.

And from that foundation, they have -unexpected even to themselves; slowly but surely- built up something, not _more_ , but-

Different.

She watches as Sasori pours the rice wine into their respective small cups, careful not to let the liquid spill. They are in the room where they first set the arrangement for their...co-habitation, as it had been a year ago. She still remembers the frigid atmosphere, the way Sasori had taken out his little book as if they were performing a business transaction, the way her knuckles had popped when she clutched her chocolate-stained skirt.

Sakura touches the same spot on her colorful - and stuffy, it’s _hot_ \- kimono. She glances at Sasori’s yukata, imbued in modest colors by contrast.

To her dismay, she’s learned, no matter what garb he wears, no matter how tousled his hair, it does nothing to mute the appeal of his handsome face.

Lucky _bastard_.

She snaps out of her internal monologue when Sasori calls her name just then, carefully holding the first of the three cups of wine and taking the three sips each required after he’s done so.

There is no vaguely uncomfortable-looking Shinto priest to conduct the ceremony, no nervous wedding guests to bear witness to what was a complete disaster, last year; his firmly unimpressed expression locked in place and she trying her utmost to function after the sleepless night.

It just hadn’t been the ideal beginning, not by a long shot. It’s the reason they’re sort of recreating some parts of that ceremony right now.

The rings are neatly placed before them, their vows memorised.

Sasori takes a deep breath before he speaks.

“The woman, I marry.” The lines are not unfamiliar to her, but the way he’s looking at her, his tone of voice. It’s much different from the monosyllabic one she’s gotten accustomed to, and she feels heat blooming upon her cheeks. She’s...

 _Flustered_. Dare she say.

“No matter if in times of illness and health,” he coughs briefly, as if he wasn’t sure what to say next. “No matter how… many flaws she holds.”

She can’t help grinning, sensing that _that one_ isn’t part of the script.

But the humor is short-lived; her expression falters the moment he locks eyes with her.

They’re soft, filled with adoration for- for _her_.

A lump forms in her throat and the corners of her eyes prickle. _Oh hell no, you’re not going to cry, little girl_.

“I will love this person.” He takes both of her hands in his, his touch so gentle, so unassuming. “Respect this person, console this person.” The pad of his thumb traces in a ghosting caress over the back of her hand, and his gaze changes.

They’re full of love, and the way he directs it at her, the way it’s only for her, it’s-...it’s too much. Far too much.

Hot tears now grace her chin, and she’s unable to stop more from falling.

“I will cherish this person. Until death do us part.”

Her vision is blurry and he lets go of her hand, but he does not withdraw as she'd anticipated. Instead he raises his own to her face, gently wiping her tears from her cheeks before they can finish their course. 

The corners of his mouth lift ever so subtly.

“I swear.”

His hands leave her face, and she’s quick to wipe the rest of the tears away with the sleeves of her kimono ( _Thank god_ , they’ve forgone the mascara today.)

She sniffs. “Sorry, I-, give me a moment.”

Her eyes are no doubt already puffy, but she ignores that, straightening her posture and looking ahead as she tries to calm her shaking breaths.

“The man I marry,” she begins, once she’s regained enough of her composure. “No matter if in times of illness or health...”

He’s not used to this, she can tell, his hands longing to occupy himself with something. She smiles, showing him her reassurance.

“I will love this person.”

She takes his hands as he has just done with hers.

“Respect this person, console this person. I-”

She remembers when his visits halted, when his soft smiles turned into apathetic frowns. She remembers the little boy who’d lived a lonely life, while she grew up surrounded and cherished by her friends and family; Who forgave every mishap she’d had, while there was no one to forgive him.

She never wants him to feel that way, again.

“I will help this person. Until death do us apart.”

He comes closer to envelop her in his arms, hesitantly, and her voice wavers at the gesture, even as it’s reassuring and comforting. He doesn’t seem to mind how her eyeliner and tears smear the fabric of his yukata, because despite her own faults, he cherishes her just the same.

Whatever the future holds for them, they will make it through together.

He loves her. And she him.

 

 

“I swear.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> The ceremony in the epilogue is a part of the actual shinto wedding ceremonies, but I adjusted the awkward direct translation a bit. This is overall just a collection of slightly disjointed drabbles to show the development of the relationship, but please do tell me what you thought of it.


End file.
